


Semantics

by SolarMorrigan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall - Fandom
Genre: And Bond tries very hard not to be amused, And very chatty, M/M, Q is very drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 05:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: "Enough. No more math.""No more drinks." Bond corrected."No more drinks." Q parroted.





	Semantics

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for [this](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/812016.html?thread=103244784#t103244784) comment_fic prompt
> 
> We don't know why Q is drunk. Q probably doesn't know why Q is drunk. Just go with it

“Just how many drinks have you had?” Bond queried, no judgement, just genuine curiosity.

Q squinted at the empty glasses littering the back table he’d claimed at the pub; the vantage point it offered would have been more useful if Q wasn’t half drunk out of his head. “I have had… I can’t…” Q waved his hand vaguely over the table, “ _Math_. Can’t math right now, Bond.”

Bond pressed his lips together in a firm line that refused the exit of any laughter. Bad days weren’t made better by booze, and judging by Q’s appearance and the amount of liquor he’d likely consumed, Q had had a hell of a day. Bond would not laugh at Q, for at least the man had trusted Bond to come when he was needed- but hell if it wasn’t at least a little funny. “Then however much you’ve had, I’d say you’ve probably had enough.” He resolved.

“Yes.” Q began to nod, squinched his eyes shut and sat back in his seat, “Enough. No more math.”

“No more drinks.” Bond corrected.

“No more drinks.” Q parroted.

“Let’s settle your tab and I’ll get you out of here.”

Q held up a finger, signaling that Bond ought to give him a moment, before he carefully pushed his hand into his back pocket and extracted his wallet. He pulled out what looked like every note he had and pressed the lot into Bond’s hand. “No more math.” Q told him gravely, “Leave a nice tip, please.”

The resolve not to laugh held firm as Bond went up to the bar to pay Q’s tab, obediently leaving a generous tip, the returned to Q with the change. The pair had just about made it to the door with a decided lack of wobbling—Bond was steady and Q was too slight to really throw him off—before Q began to babble again.

“I have always wondered, you know, about assassination.” Q murmured.

“Have you?” Bond indulged him.

“The word, I mean. The act, maybe. The intent! Yes, the intent. I think. What I mean is, how important do you have to be be- before you are assassinated, instead of murdered?” Q continued, speaking his disjointed sentences into Bond’s shoulder, “Or is it- is it only people in a certain line of… of work? Who can be assassinated? Or… does it just have to be done by an assassin?”

“Truly a question for the ages, Q.” Bond replied, faintly impressed that for as lazy as Q’s speech was becoming, the man continued to pronounce ‘assassin’ impeccably.

“Isn’t it? I tend to get philso- pholo- philos…” Q paused, frowned, “I ask the best questions when I’m drunk.”

Bond couldn’t help it. The snort of laughter slipped out and Q turned a look of drunken affront on him, mitigated slightly by the way he seemed to still be trying to curl into Bond’s side. “I _do_.” Q insisted, “But. I do not… don’t drink often.”

“I’d never have guessed.” Bond replied, carefully propping Q against the side of the car so he could get the door open, “D’you suppose you’ll be able to make it back to yours without being sick on the seats?”

“Ask me no questions, Bond.” Q’s voice wavered slightly, “And I will tell you no lies.”

“Back to mine, then.” Bond shook his head; his flat was closer and therefore shortened the time in which Q would be spending precariously drunk in the car.

“Yes.” Q nodded and allowed Bond to pour him into the passenger seat, clinging only a little to the agent’s hands before letting go, “Back to yours. In the morning you’ll tell me what cons- constitutes an assassination.”

“Certainly. I’m sure you’ll feel up to a nice lecture first thing in the morning.” Bond buckled  into the driver’s seat and glanced over at Q, whose eyes were sliding shut, “Shouldn’t _you_ know what constitutes an assassination?”

“Probably.” Q snorted, then looked very sorry for having done so, “Rather have you tell me, anyway.”

Bond dearly wished he’d been able to record this conversation. “How about we forget about assassination and get you somewhere you can be horizontal before you pass out.”

“Yes… Home, James,” Q giggled to himself, “And don’t… don’t spare the… er…”

“If you start singing, I’m kicking your drunk arse out of my car.” Bond warned him.

“Spoilsport.” Q muttered, pressing himself further back into the seat, “Tell me about the- the thing. In the morning, then.”

Bond shook his head. “If you remember what the thing is, Q, I will tell you all about it.”

“Good.” Q nodded.

Bond resolved to bring a recording device the next time he had the dubious pleasure of collecting his—quartermaster? friend? occasional shag? whatever they were—from the pub. Q would never believe him in the morning.


End file.
